


in quiet rooms

by Magiclaire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Post-The Final Problem, how i wish it ended, i just wanted lgbt representation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9354593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magiclaire/pseuds/Magiclaire
Summary: Sherlock and John are back to living at Baker Street, but nothing can ever be the same. And maybe that’s okay.





	

“John!” Sherlock shouts, his voice echoing through the flat, “John, I need your help! Come quickly!” 

There’s a sharp thudding from the stairs, and John runs into the flat, a gun already in his hand. “Sherlock?” When he enters their living room, he looks around from the threat, until his eyes land on Sherlock. He rolls his eyes and stands up straight, tucking his gun back into his coat. 

Sherlock, impervious to John’s exasperated looks, stares at Rosie with fear in his eyes. The tiny girl cries, tears rolling down her cheeks. “What do I do?” Sherlock rocks the baby back and forth on his hip, desperate to calm the child. 

Although it takes John a moment to adjust, to slow his breathing from the panic that has filled his chest, he soon smiles and walks over to Rosie. He trills his tongue at his child and brushes her hair off her forehead while Sherlock watches in fascination. Rosie stops crying for a few moments, her wide eyes observing John’s face, transfixed. 

“Yeah, she’s fine.” John glances up at Sherlock, a smirk on his face from seeing his friend so humanized by a baby. “Maybe hungry. I’ll go get her bottle.” 

Turning towards the kitchen, John walks away from Sherlock and the baby, his head buzzing with light. Behind him, he can hear Sherlock pacing the flat, Rosie giggling as he talks to her about something nonsensical. 

He fixes the bottle for Rosie, his movements automatic; his mind is elsewhere, somewhere beyond the flat. Still trapped in the well, maybe, or stuck somewhere else in Sherrinford, like the room where Sherlock pressed a gun to his neck with a finger on the trigger. It’d been weeks since they faced death like that – since then, they’d focused on rebuilding 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had lived with John for a bit, but now that their old flat was back in order, they’d begun the arduous process of moving back in. But even as the weeks came and went, in moments of silence, John would be struck with a strong feeling. A feeling he couldn’t quite place. 

Because just a few weeks ago, they both could’ve died. One of them – or both – would be gone and he’d never had said all the things he meant to. All that would be left were moments, memories of times when they could’ve said anything and said nothing of purpose, just a joke or a change of topic. 

He walks back out the living room with bottle in hand, banishing the thoughts at the back of his mind to a later date. After handing the bottle to Sherlock, he takes a moment to let in the flat. It’s more cramped than it ever was before, but he isn’t sure whether that’s because of the various waiting-to-be-unpacked boxes stacked in the corners, the addition of a new person, or the strange feeling of the flat always being full. 

Sherlock catches his eyes, waking him from his thoughts. “Are you okay?” He asks, his eyes trailing away from John to watch Rosie again. 

There’s a pause. And then: “What do we do now? After everything that’s happened? Just go back to solving crimes, living like bachelors at 221B?” John looks to Sherlock for an answer, but he just stares back at John, waiting for more. He can hear Mary’s voice in his head, telling him to do better. Telling him that she knows what they can become. 

He continues, his voice somewhere between angry and confused, so quiet it is almost a whisper. “Because what about Rosie? And what about us? Sherlock, we both almost died many times and we still haven’t even talked about this. You almost shot yourself in front of me! And you almost shot Mycroft and all of this happened to us. And you’re just unaffected? Business as usual?” Trailing off into angry muttering, his rant ends as quickly as it started. The discomfort roiling in his stomach hasn’t dissolved, and he wishes he knew how to voice all these feelings, but this is uncharted territory. This is new. His best friend is silent, staring at John in muted empathy. Because for a moment, John forgot that this isn’t the Sherlock he first met all those years ago – this Sherlock is human.

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, turning away momentarily to put the bottle on the table as Rosie finishes it. 

“What?” 

“Why not go back to solving crimes together? We can raise Rosie together. It’s not so difficult. Although I wouldn’t say we have to live like bachelors.” 

A quiet moment falls between them as John considers all the reasons it wouldn’t work. All the things they still haven’t said, all the things they still need to work through. “People will talk,” He finally says, locking eyes with Sherlock. 

Holding Rosie in one hand and resting his other on John’s shoulder, Sherlock shrugs. “It is what it is.” He looks at John, his eyes smiling from the little inside joke. 

John chuckles to himself, stepping closer to Sherlock and watching his daughter – in a way, their daughter – babble to herself. It isn’t perfect, and it certainly isn’t the way he’d imagined it in his head years and years ago, but it is something. It is enough. 

He leans his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, who shifts to wrap his arm around John entirely. There are a lot of words he wants to say, words that bubble up from his chest but get caught just before they leave his mouth. So he swallows them, promising to say them another day, because now they have time. They have another day, and a day after that, and all the days they want to have. 

And it turns out he didn’t need to say anything at all, because against some miracle, Sherlock does. “It was always you,” He whispers, and John doesn’t need an explanation. Because he knows the feeling, the questioning thoughts late at night as he wonders why he always comes back to Sherlock Holmes. His best friend. He always wondered if they could ever make this type of transition – from friends, the legendary duo – to whatever it is he always wished they could be. 

Reaching up, he kisses Sherlock on the cheek. To test his hypothesis, so to speak. And it works – feels more natural than maybe anything else he’s ever done, and all his questions are answered. 

“Always,” John repeats, so soft that he hardly even hears himself. 

The morning light shines in through the windows at 221B Baker Street, filling the tiny flat with sweet hues of sunshine. It drifts past the open curtains, illuminating the dust twirling through the air, and casting soft shadows across the family that stood in the center of the room. For once and for all, at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> In the wake of the mess that was TFP, I turn to fanfiction to fill the void in my empty gay heart. This fic in no way ties up the loose ends of S4, but it's what I missed the most. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. Much love!


End file.
